粥

As I shake water from
the scallions, I look up and see
the both of you
resting on the grass
taking in the sun.

The ginger is firm with tan skin
still a vibrant yellow inside
reduced to thin slivers
fine enough to mix in
fierce enough to stand out.

The scallions paint the bowl
layers of white, waves of deep
and shallow greens,
their scent stings my eyes.

When you wake, the handful
of jasmine rice will be softer
than it used to be, broken
by heat, water, and time.

When you add that squeeze of lime, the
splash of fish sauce, and cast the green
and the yellow carelessly
across that milky white canvas

I’ll be thinking of them
doing the same for me,
sitting, watching me eat.

Willing me, from the top to the bottom
of every blue and white porcelain bowl
to be better, to be stronger.